


Only The Lonely

by Rroselavy



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-11
Updated: 2010-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:03:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rroselavy/pseuds/Rroselavy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley relieves some tension.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only The Lonely

Of course, by the time Crowley arrived in front of Aziraphale's bookshop at some god-forsaken hour; all the lights were off, save a single dim one that cast only enough illumination to let any would-be customers know that the establishment was most definitely closed.

Aziraphale had probably been asleep for hours already. Crowley tried to picture him in bed. He probably looked like an angel, with all his perfect blond ringlets framing his face.

He laughed out loud at his own joke, but the image stayed in his mind. He imagined gazing down on the angel as he slept soundly. Would that make him a Guardian Demon, he wondered.

He cut the engine to the Bentley and tipped his head back to rest against the plush headrest. The vague scent of stale cigarettes and alcohol still clung to his coat, a reminder that he could have had all the willing flesh he'd wanted--the tempting young girls and boys, parading about in too tight clothes that left nothing to his imagination. And that was no mean feat, as he had an exceptional imagination. The only problem was that he hadn't wanted anything to do with any of them. Even the thought of patronizing the glory hole in the men's room had left him flat.

In fact, the entire time he'd sat at the bar in that den of iniquity, he'd been thinking rather impure thoughts about Aziraphale. He wondered what the angel would make of the men's room set up, and it hadn't taken much at that point to imagine Aziraphale on his knees … that had left him with a bit of a problem.

Which had led him to his current location, with the same situation. He palmed over the bulge at his crotch and took a deep breath. He would have liked to think Aziraphale would have been appalled by the prurience of a glory hole, but Crowley knew the angel better than that. Aziraphale may express dismay at first, but his curiosity would eventually get the better of him, and a most interesting conversation would ensue. Surprisingly, intellectualizing porn with Aziraphale had become one of Crowley's favorite fantasies.

He was getting soft in his old age. Or maybe, the angel's _goodness_ was rubbing off on him as much as he'd been tainting Aziraphale's purity. The mechanism didn't matter, only the outcome, which currently was wanking off to delicious thoughts of Aziraphale's plump lips and soft hands doing very un-angel-like things to his naughty bits.

Another deep breath brought the rich, redolent scent of fine-grain leather and with it to mind an image of Aziraphale clad in supple white fringed hide studded with rhinestones--it must have been in Vegas the 1980s; he was performing as an Elvis impersonator. At the time and even now, Crowley didn't have the heart to tell him that he'd chosen fat Elvis to mimic, but somehow, Aziraphale had pulled it off anyway. Replete with dyed hair and oversized sunglasses, he'd still managed to look sexy and put together while he was slumming it undercover on some ineffable mission.  
They'd spent several hours knocking back free drinks in a hotel casino--Aziraphale still in his ridiculous outfit and suffering the attention of a bus-load of blue-haired ladies--feeding nickels into slot machines while arguing the merits of Elvis Presley and Roy Orbison, whom Crowley favored as far more talented, with a better voice to boot. He'd left a hundred dollars richer; Aziraphale, of course, fixed it so that he'd broken even. Good times, good times, back then.

Leather had never smelled the same to Crowley since.

He was certain Elvis would have ended up on his side--gone straight to hell-- (the guy never met a vice he didn't like) so Crowley was shocked when Aziraphale informed him that he'd ended up in heaven. It turned out He actually _liked_all those cheesy Christmas specials. There really was not accounting for taste.

Crowley much preferred to think of Aziraphale poured into _black_ leather, the tighter the better, with laces running up the sides. He wouldn't mind undoing them (with his teeth) and then sliding his hands underneath the body-warmed leather and over Aziraphale's perfectly sculpted hipbones. Michelangelo's _David_ had nothing on him, even if, as the angel insisted, he'd been the model.

_Yesssss,_ he hissed out the air he'd been holding in his lungs, his palm squeezing down against his erection in a long stroke. He imagined peeling those pants lower, exposing Aziraphale's nether regions. Now that was an exquisite image to hold onto as he felt his climax bearing down--far more appealing than the push-up bras and low-rise jeans he'd left behind at the bar.

He imagined the sound Aziraphale would make when his hand teased over the angel's erection, how he would positively moan, should Crowley fall to his knees before him. And he would, too, because if there was anyone in the universe worth worshipping, it was certainly Aziraphale.

His hand moved faster and Crowley closed his eyes, succumbing to the need that had been slowly building all night. As he teetered on the edge, for a few tantalizing seconds before he came, he almost felt a twinge of guilt. He pushed the sentiment out of his mind quickly, though, as waves of bliss followed his release; the release of tension felt marvelous. He shook his head and laughed to himself. He really was getting soft, both physically and metaphorically.

He'd have to do something about that.


End file.
